Some call thee ‘the worst cause of war,’ but I Maintain thou art the best: for after all From thee we come, to thee we go, and why To get at thee not batter down a wall, Or waste a world? since no one can deny Thou dost replenish worlds both great and small: With, or without thee, all things at a stand Are, or would be, thou sea of life’s dry land! Catherine, who was the grand epitome Of that great cause of war, or peace, or what You please (it causes all the things which be, So you may take your choice of this or that)— Catherine, I say, was very glad to see The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat Victory; and pausing as she saw him kneel With his despatch, forgot to break the seal. Then recollecting the whole empress, nor forgetting quite the woman (which composed At least three parts of this great whole), she tore The letter open with an air which posed The court, that watch’d each look her visage wore, Until a royal smile at length disclosed Fair weather for the day. Though rather spacious, Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gracious. Great joy was hers, or rather joys: the first Was a ta’en city, thirty thousand slain. Glory and triumph o’er her aspect burst, As an East Indian sunrise on the main. These quench’d a moment her ambition’s thirst— So Arab deserts drink in summer’s rain: In vain!—As fall the dews on quenchless sands, Blood only serves to wash Ambition’s hands! Her next amusement was more fanciful; She smiled at mad Suwarrow’s rhymes, who threw Into a Russian couplet rather dull The whole gazette of thousands whom he slew. Her third was feminine enough to annul The shudder which runs naturally through Our veins, when things call’d sovereigns think it best To kill, and generals turn it into jest. The two first feelings ran their course complete, And lighted first her eye, and then her mouth: The whole court look’d immediately most sweet, Like flowers well water’d after a long drouth. But when on the lieutenant at her feet Her majesty, who liked to gaze on youth Almost as much as on a new despatch, Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch. Though somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent, When wroth—while pleased, she was as fine a figure As those who like things rosy, ripe, and succulent, Would wish to look on, while they are in vigour. She could repay each amatory look you lent With interest, and in turn was wont with rigour To exact of Cupid’s bills the full amount At sight, nor would permit you to discount. With her the latter, though at times convenient, Was not so necessary; for they tell That she was handsome, and though fierce look’d lenient, And always used her favourites too well. If once beyond her boudoir’s precincts in ye went, Your ‘fortune’ was in a fair way ‘to swell A man’ (as Giles says); for though she would widow all Nations, she liked man as an individual.